Gore Glen (Cullen & Bain Book 4)

by Ed James

  ‘And girls.’

  ‘He find anything?’

  ‘Not sure. These investigations take a long time, Scott.’ She zipped up her fleece jacket over her suit. ‘I’m just warning you, that’s all.’

  ‘You mean, what if he’s not transitioned out of the Complaints over to the MIT? What if he’s actually investigating us?’

  She locked eyes with him. ‘What if he’s investigating you, Scott?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The Secret Rozzer?’ She scuttled off across the road towards the inner crime scene.

  It made sense. Perfect sense.

  Cullen had been given no choice in bringing Shepherd in, just some spurious excuse like Chantal Jain still being on her isolation pattern. Cullen was sure he’d read somewhere that there was no medical reason for people of BAME origin to get Covid worse than anyone else, and God knows his cough was a constant reminder of how bad he’d had it.

  And what he knew was that some arsehole—Bain, or someone allied with him—was broadcasting his deepest professional secrets. His most-stupid mistakes, documenting them for the world to hear.

  And making him look like an absolute idiot.

  Everyone knew.

  Someone like Methven, with a long history of clearing out dead wood, of course he would target Cullen to deflect blame from his own shortcomings. He could imagine the back-room deal, where Methven sucked up to the brass in their Specialised Crime Division, and they worked with Professional Standards & Ethics to remove yet another bad apple. Like demoting Bain to DC.

  Cullen knew Methven had his back, but he didn’t want to risk his own promotion.

  Jesus Christ, Cullen was starting to think like Bain.

  Lauren was a good officer, but she could be a bit scatter-brained at times. Prone to conspiracy thinking.

  No, Cullen just had to get on with the job and focus on the here and now.

  DC Eva Law walked over to him, fists clenched. ‘Sir.’ Barely looked at Cullen before scuttling off towards Lauren. She had that new ice-queen look, expression emotionless, hair dyed silver-grey. Still wouldn’t be moved on to another team, despite their history.

  Elvis was another matter entirely. Stretching out and yawning the yawn of a new father. His shirt popped out of his trousers, giving a flash of hairy belly. He walked over in Eva’s wake, but gave Cullen the nod.

  ‘Paul.’ Cullen skipped over to him, matching Elvis’s slow pace as they walked. ‘Need a word.’ He managed to get him to stop by blocking him off.

  Elvis scratched at his long sideburns. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Another episode of the podcast dropped.’

  ‘Scott, I told you. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Paul, I trust you, okay? I’ve never outright accused you, but I have asked you to dig into it for me.’

  ‘Scott, since we got back from America, I’ve been up to my eyeballs in preparing for a baby, then having a baby, then being absolutely shattered from having a new baby screaming the house down every night. You think I’ve got time to investigate some bloody podcast?’

  ‘I asked — you said you would.’

  ‘And what did your last slave die of?’ Elvis shook his head. ‘Scott, do you really think it’s about you?’

  Cullen knew he had to be very careful here. ‘I’m worried that the powers that be will think it is about me. There are enough unsubtle hints on there.’

  ‘On iTunes, or whatever Apple call their podcasts thing these days, it’s marked as fiction. Are you telling me you really pissed in a sink at a Christmas night out?’

  Cullen looked away from him, with that familiar hot tingle climbing his neck. ‘Look, Paul, just see what you can find.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cullen clapped him on the arm. ‘And can you see what CCTV you can dig up for this place?’

  Elvis looked around the woodland. ‘Here?’

  ‘Not here here, but the roads to and from it.’ Cullen frowned. ‘A lot of forestry places have security, right?’

  ‘Don’t think this is one of them, Scott.’

  ‘Well, see if it is.’ Cullen fixed him with as good a “boss’s boss” stare as he could muster. ‘And there are a ton of brownie points in you identifying the Secret Rozzer. Don’t forget that.’

  4

  I look over at Hunter in the driving seat. ‘You were saying you grew up round here, right?’

  ‘Right.’ His fingers tighten on the wheel. Something bad went down, alright. Note to self — abuse that knowledge in future. ‘Changed a bit in that time. Bars and cafes and galleries.’ Not that any of the ones we’re passing are open, mind. ‘But a lot of it’s the same. The people take a long time to change.’ He pulls up at the lights. Streets are deserted, when it’s usually rammed. The town hall is basking in the sun, like a bunch of workers at “Taps Aff” o’clock. ‘Long time since this place was a town. Now it’s just part of Edinburgh.’

  The other way, the blue sea stretches all the way over to North Berwick and the law poking up at the sky like my boy when he was wee, desperate for an ice cream. The boozer on the corner is called The Glassblower. Remember when a couple of letters had fallen off the sign and it said “assblower”.

  ‘You worked with Shepherd before, right?’

  Hunter nods, eyes locked on the traffic. It’s coming from the left, but it’ll be our turn soon enough. ‘Back in St Leonards. Years ago. Me and Scott worked for him.’

  ‘Christ, you’ve been a DC that long?’

  ‘Twelve years, but in and out of uniform.’

  ‘Why are you still doing this?’

  Hunter looks over at us. ‘Why are you still doing this?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘This job, Brian. It’s shite. You hate it, and everyone hates you.’

  I grin at him. ‘Not everyone.’

  ‘Okay, so everyone except Elvis.’

  ‘Elvis isn’t speaking to me anymore, but Craig my friend, it’s not going to be for long.’

  Hunter sets off onto the junction, waiting his turn to go right. ‘Oh?’

  I settle back in my seat. ‘Aye, I’m just waiting for my inheritance from my old man’s death.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Three weeks back. Passed away in his sleep, the old bugger. Not even Covid. Just a long time of being a jakey bugger.’ Christ, it’s actually making me emotional here. ‘But he left it all to me in his will. A ton of cash I’d paid him for his old house, the family pile, and the big place in the Highlands.’

  Hunter takes the turning when I wouldn’t, what with there being a monster bus hurtling towards us. Gets round in one piece, though. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Aye. Up past Lairg. Lovely, I tell you. And we’re thinking of selling our pile and moving there. Live the life of Riley, sit back and let people like you, Cullen and Luke Shepherd do the donkey work. Let you make a royal arse of doing the donkey work.’ I tap him on the arm. ‘A royal ass of the donkey work.’

  But Hunter’s not smiling as he takes the next left. ‘I met your better half in hospital a couple of months ago. She seems nice.’

  ‘Apinya is a goddess, Craig. A goddess. Way better than I deserve. How’s your missus?’

  Hunter pulls into the street, but there’s a Range Rover trying to get through some shonky double-parking. ‘We’re not married.’

  ‘I know that. But how is wee Chantal?’

  ‘She’s got to look after her parents, so she’s been told to self-isolate from work and from me. It’s been hard on our relationship.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Are you.’ Statement, not a question. He slaloms round the Range Rover and pulls up outside the address.

  Nice place, have to say. Brighton Crescent is Portobello, not even Joppa, the posh bit, but boy is it fancy. Big old Georgian or Victorian or whatever houses. A long terrace of two storey-things, in a crescent like crisps on your plate in a café, tucked in by the coleslaw of the wee park.
>
  Heh, quite like that. Could murder a bag of salt and vinegar just now. Stomach’s rumbling and two bacon rolls can only go so far, eh?

  I get out and look around the place, but I can’t for the life of me see why an MSP would live out here. ‘You’re absolutely positive that this is the place?’

  Hunter’s frowning at us. Again. Boy’s making a habit of it. ‘Why do you think it isn’t?’

  ‘Well, Craig, it’s just that it’s bit of a stretch from here to the parly in Holyrood, isn’t it?’ I wave off in the direction I think the parliament is in, but all I can see from here is the train line a wee bitty over, hanging above the other houses and some trees. ‘Must be ten miles.’

  Hunter barks out a laugh. One of those snide ones that doesn’t have any humour. He thinks I’m a fanny. ‘Ten miles, eh?’ He shakes his head. ‘Ten miles and you’d be past the zoo, probably the other end of the bypass, you clown.’

  ‘Clown?’ I get in his face. ‘Who do you think you’re calling a clown?’

  He just stands there, like he’s dealing with a wee laddie. Then he looks down at my feet. ‘Those are mighty long shoes there. And make sure your car doesn’t fall apart when you start it.’

  ‘Listen, you big bugger, I was a DI for—’

  ‘Was. You’re a DC again. So why don’t you just shut up, quit moaning and get on with doing your job?’

  Big bugger has got us. I shove my paws deep into my pockets while he walks over to the house and tries the bell. ‘Isobel Geddes is one of the Regional MSPs for South Scotland, right?’

  ‘Schools Minister too.’ Still got the printout in my pocket. ‘She lives in Edinburgh, though.’ Sure enough, this is the address. I give her a whistle. ‘Expensive pad this.’

  ‘And then some.’ Hunter tries the bell again, then peeks through the blinds. ‘Place looks empty.’

  And he’s right. Not a sight or a sound. ‘So an MSP doesn’t turn up for work, and we’re supposed to look for her?’

  ‘It’s that or head down to Gorebridge with Scott and company.’ Hunter squats down, with precise control I have to say, and opens the letterbox. ‘Police! Ms Geddes! It’s the police!’ He peeks through, then hauls himself back up. ‘Nobody in.’

  I rub my hands together, a nice gesture to indicate how I’m taking charge of this situation. Craig here might be able to squat like that, but he’s not been a DI. Or a DS. ‘You take the neighbours, I’ll head across the street. See what’s what. Ten minutes, then meet back at the motor.’

  ‘Fine.’ Boy looks relieved to be getting away from Yours Truly. Well, the feeling’s mutual, pal. ‘Okay.’ He steps over the low wall to the next door, already onto the next task.

  Got him working for me. Priceless.

  I check the moby as I cross the road, nothing much of interest except a new episode of that Secret Rozzer podcast. Would love to shake the boy’s hand. I put the phone away and take a good look at the three houses opposite. Not necessarily about who has the best view, is it? Sometimes it’s who’s in or who’s twitching their curtains.

  BINGO.

  I head up the left-most of the three paths and rap on the door. Old-fashioned, good ol’ police officer pattern.

  Christ, my mask!

  I search my pockets for it, and there it is. I snap it on around my lugs and over my mouth, just as the door opens to a crack.

  A wisened old wifie’s face looks out, that sort of brown skin that my old boy had, God rest his soul. She’s got a mask and goggles on herself. No chance she’s catching anything from anyone. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Police, madam.’ I hold up my warrant card, and I swear it still stings saying these words, ‘DC Brian Bain, madam.’

  ‘You can’t come in.’

  ‘Don’t need to—’

  ‘I’ll die if I catch that Covid.’

  ‘I understand, madam. I lost my father to it just recently.’ Stretching the truth a little, but it yields promising results from her, judging by her frown. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, maybe, but this old dog has the best tricks. The best. ‘Looking to speak to one of your neighbours.’

  ‘Oh?’ The door opens wide now. Trick with these types is to tease them with just a wee bit of gossip and mystery. Works wonders.

  ‘Aye, she didn’t turn up at work this morning.’

  ‘And she’s the Schools Minister, isn’t she?’ Oh, she’s on the ball this one.

  ‘That she is. So you can see why we’re looking to find her.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen Isobel since Friday morning when she left for work.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just a minute, son.’ She disappears back into her house, but the tang of her cigarette smoke cuts through even this mask.

  Bliss. Been a long time since I had one. A very long time.

  The door opens and she comes back out, clutching a wee brown leather book. Oh ho ho, she’s a professional standard curtain twitcher! ‘Let me see… Isobel, Isobel, Isobel. Yes, she left at half past five on Friday morning.’

  ‘That’s early.’

  ‘I barely sleep.’

  ‘I meant for her.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, she cycles in, so I presume it means she cuts through the park and can avoid the traffic. Then she must shower at the parliament, of course, it’s quite the cycle. And then she’ll have important matters of state to attend to before a full working day.’

  Christ, it’s like this old wifie has been stalking her down at the parly too! ‘So you didn’t see her this weekend?’

  She snaps the book shut. ‘I never see her at the weekend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘That’s another matter entirely.’

  ‘What do you—’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s one that I’m afraid I can’t help you with.’

  I whip out my own notebook and write it all down. ‘Okay, that’s been massively helpful, Mrs…?’

  ‘Armitage. Mrs Archibald Armitage.’ She hands us a card, a little white thing with doilies and all that crud. Church organist by the looks of it. Well, takes all sorts.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Armitage.’

  ‘Oh, please call me Maureen. Everyone does.’ And with a little flash of flirtatiousness, she closes the door.

  Okay, so I can see Hunter hanging around by the car, so I need to get this straight in my head first.

  He looks up from his own notebook as I approach. ‘Get anything?’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘Well, nobody in at either neighbour. But you seem to hit it off with her.’

  ‘All about charming them, Craig.’ I tap my notebook. ‘Aye, old Maureen there kept a close eye on Isobel Geddes, that’s for sure. Along with the whole street. Said she’s not been here since Friday morning. But that’s not unusual.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, this is a dead end here, but it begs a few questions about where she spends her weekends, doesn’t it?’

  He rasps a hand across his shaved bonce. ‘Let’s get down to the parliament.’

  ‘Aye, eager to see how much of an arse Shepherd’s made of it.’

  5

  Every time he had to deal with him, Cullen wished that DC Malcolm McKeown would stop smirking like that. Like he knew his innermost thoughts and found them absolutely hysterical, but only wanted him to see that he knew. Or that he wanted him to see that he knew that he knew that he knew.

  Christ. Even thinking that melted his brain.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Medium height and slight build, but with the deep voice of a bear man, McKeown was usually an afterthought in Cullen’s world, one of those rows on a spreadsheet that he had to have to make up numbers, but who he delegated to Lauren and Chantal to manage. Couldn’t even remember which one was in charge of him.

  Christ, Cullen didn’t know what he’d become with his new role, or whether he even liked it.

  Anyway, while McKeown was managing the inner crime scene, he was one of the best at it. Nothing got past him,
not even the fact Lauren’s crime scene goggles weren’t attached properly. ‘Sarge, you’ll need to tighten those.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Cullen was used to wearing masks now, but the way everything clung to his sweaty skin still didn’t feel right. ‘Ready?’

  Lauren adjusted her goggles again. ‘Ready.’

  ‘Thanks, Malky.’ Cullen nodded at McKeown, then stepped under the crime scene tape. Not even a breeze to make it flap.

  His phone thrummed in his pocket. A text from Hunter. No sign of Geddes at her home.

  Cullen sighed as he tapped out his reply: Tell your sergeant, Craig, not me. He pocketed his phone and looked around and didn’t know the collective noun for CSIs. Murder seemed appropriate, but that was crows. Whatever it was, they were grouped together, searching, dusting whatever they found, then cataloguing and bagging, all up in the middle of a small cave. A few metres across of bare rock blasted away to an opening. And there was a bugger of a climb to get up there.

  ‘Come on.’ Cullen set off, but the bootees covering his shoes didn’t exactly give much traction.

  Lauren was way ahead of him, taking long strides and staying stable, so stable that she held out a hand to haul Cullen up. Deceptively strong too.

  He got onto a flatter section, just along from the cave opening, and checked the five bodies jammed into the space.

  Cullen could recognise Jimmy Deeley’s belly a mile off, even through fog and at night. The Edinburgh pathologist was crouched down, working away. But whatever he saw, he was shaking his head at it. And most importantly of all, blocking what he was looking at.

  ‘Coming through.’ Cullen stepped through the CSIs huddled this side of Deeley, then had to stop dead.

  Just under the overhang, a body lay on a pedestal of rough, natural stone, and naked. Definitely a woman, but her face was a red mess that didn’t look human. Cullen caught glimpses of blonde hair in amongst the horror. He had to step away.

  Not that the mask offered him much fresh air.

  ‘You okay, Scott?’ Lauren was next to him, head tilted to the side.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Someone had done that to another human being. That level of ferocity and rage. Jesus Christ. He needed to catch them. It was the only way to block it out.